Chronicle of Bedivere
by Missing Triforce
Summary: King Arthur fic! 'I am a mostly unknown knight, compared the great glory of Lancelot and Arthur, but I was there. I saw. I was the last to see.' The story of Sir Bedivere, the knight who went from wifekiller to the Excalibur-thrower. T for violence.
1. Beginnings

**Hello all! Been missing you. Hopefully, I'll post more Sherlock (*drools, wipes mouth, continues typing*) fanfiction once school is over, but in the meantime something else I love: King Arthur! This is a class assignment that technically IS fanfiction, but really is mostly an original piece.**

**WARNING TO NON-ARTHUR NERD: This piece contains references to people, places, and events that are from obscure and mainstream Arthurian legends and historical texts. It most heavily references TH White's _Once and Future King_. If you are having trouble, please use Wikipedia or write a review with your questions. I'll respond :D**

**Oh, and please review! :D**

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

_While walking in the library of Glastonbury Church, I came upon this old manuscript, covered in the dust of our forefathers. Below is a most enlightening excerpt from the manuscript, _The Chronicles of the Knights_, that I translated from the ancient dialect. The manuscript was written by the Canterbury scribe Jonathan in the time before our father's or even our father's father, but just after the time of Arthur. Among other former members of Arthur's court, the great scribe chose to write down from dictation the life and troubles of one Sir Bedivere. I have translated this excerpt specifically for the instruction of the astounding number of young people about today, so they might learn from Sir Bedivere's example of manhood and valor._

I am a mostly unknown knight. When all is turned once again to dust, no one will remember me, but dwell on the great lighted glory of Lancelot and Arthur, as it should be. But I was there. I saw. I was the last to see.

I grew up in a fortified castle far away from the likes of Arthur or Camelot. My father, Lord Pedrawd, was that of the old ways, or at least of what became the old ways, of Uther. Harsh, brutal slaps of the armored gauntlet. I was my father's first son with Lucan after me. I had to be the role model, the better, stronger brother for Lucan to follow. This was beaten into me by sword and fist. I...didn't like it.

I had greater aptitude for gentler ways: natural history, science, and some art. I liked to observe everything and everyone: even the lowliest servants. I secretly thought that it was the quickest way to truth. When I was very young, I even liked to watch my mother weaving and making tapestries. Those tiny little lines. But then Father or Schoolmaster would find me and tear me away from my mother's skirts to the training field.

I did well there-well enough anyway-but Lucan was almost always better. As I grew older I grew frustrated. Frustrated that I couldn't do it right and be the man my father wanted me to be. I was too gentle, and it seemed like a curse. I lashed out against the ones who pointed out my failures as well as innocent others, developing slyness, false pride, and, most of all, rage. Battle-rage, as the other Round Table knights called it. Gawaine suffered from the same, as I recall. My father loved it: he thought I was at my best then. My mother was slightly horrified, but in the end, her opinion did not really matter to my father.

Father was very two-faced. Dashing at court, beast on the battlefield. I tried to mimic it exactly-that harshness and inconsequentiality of "lesser" peoples-but always failed at it constantly. On the battlefield, Father did not believe in mercy. Killing the other nobles' kerns was the testing ground to see if you could damage the real prize. But as I said, we were far off from what anyone called "civilization," and Father probably inherited his manner from his father and him from his father and so forth. They never met Arthur or the Round Table.

Or perhaps I should say he never ran into Lancelot. I met Lancelot first. Do you know the story? No, don't write that down. Wait. Oh rubbish. Well, this was the time I was married. I had a wife who I loved very much. But I was so young, so insecure then in my manhood. Not that it excuses what I did, but...I thought that it was important to include. My wife had spirit. A tongue quicker than her head. She'd dazzle you with tales and talk until the day you died. My secret side, the one that did not want to kill and dominate as Father did, loved her truly. To listen to her. To talk. To just sit with her in the spring garden for hours and name the birds that flitted through the trees and flowers. But of course, my father had almost never heard of sitting in gardens and treating a woman like a proper person, so my notions were ridiculous. But my wife could see through me and understood so all was well until...until I committed a grievous sin.

I was feeling rather hot that day. Literary and figuratively. The summer was burning down, and the past three months of training had been a failure according to my father. We had recently had a war with a neighboring baron, and I had taken twenty noble prisoners. My father had killed them all afterwards, not trusting any ransom or other deal. The twenty knights that had cried for mercy, forgiveness, salvation were slain by my father's sword. I can still see it: the blood stained in armor, the scarlet oozing down the steel plates. I had to watch, you see. As a lesson. And the scraping and polishing and trying to get the blood out! I thought it would never end! I was nearly mad in my brains with the agony. I was supposed to revile them, hate them, but I simply couldn't. They were still men to me.

But I began with my wife. My father hated her. Not openly no, but behind his eyes you could tell. He wanted to cut off her tongue just as he did those knights' heads. He thought I loved her too much; that she was making a woman out of me with her wiles and wit. She was not too fond of him either, and perhaps he resented her intelligence. In any case, he started a rumor. My Lord, what a rumor. A rumor that I had been cuckolded. It was more than I could bear. I already felt like I was different, worthless, and impotent as a man. I couldn't kill so what else was there to do?

When I heard the rumor on the day I finished polishing the dead prisoners' armor, all I could see was red. I flew to our chamber and shouted to my dear little wife that she had a ten minute start before I would cut off her head. She didn't believe me at first. I remember seeing her sitting on the bed in her maroon dress, her face pale, so pale. Her blonde hair cascading down. Her brown eyes widened like shields. She came to me, touched my face, stroked my brow, whispered that it was a untrue and I just needed to calm down. But I was gone. So far gone I was at the level of an animal. No: even animals don't kill their mates. I was a demon. I grabbed her arm and threw her towards the staircase, yelling at her to go, run, ride away. She burst into tears.

Next I remember she was on a horse with her face dry. I was riding after her, and she was riding for her life. She was angry now, her eyes flashed like stars at me, like burning mud. Her jaw was set, her hair seemed to reach back to slap my face. Lancelot, though neither of us knew it was Lancelot, was ahead and she cried for his aid. If only...but I only have what happened. He got between us, and I suppose I said something coherent back to his inquiries. I don't really remember. I only knew I was blocked from my goal. But then an idea hit, a simple little distraction for the block. I told him other knights were on the way, and he moved the fraction of an inch I needed to ride closer to her and slice off her head. And it was easy. Why was it so easy?

I suppose it was quick for her. Lancelot turned dark purple with rage and beat me to the ground. I deserved to go lower. As we fought, what I had done began to sink in, the rage skulking away. I couldn't tell if the blood on my face was my own or my wife's. I was floating suspended just above myself, all of me wriggling just above its proper place. It was hard to reach any part of me, all the signals getting delayed. And everything was heavy amidst all the floating. So odd. By the time I was on the ground, I wanted to die. I had killed the one I had sworn to cherish, protect, love forever and beyond. But Lancelot wouldn't kill me. I still have no idea why.

My wife's name was Felicia. "Felicia" means happiness. I had killed my happiness forever.

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><p><strong>Bit of a grim start, but it gets better! Truly! And please review especially if you DON'T like all or part of it. The story is actually all finished but if no one demonstrates interest, then I don't want to use up webspace to post it...<strong>


	2. Reconcile

**Though no reviews as of yet (SUBLIMINAL MESSAGE ALERT! PLEASE REVIEW), this story's got some hits/visitors according to the magical story traffic tab. So TADAH! Chapter 2 with a proper title and everything. It's still a bit grim here, not to mention short, but enter Arthur & Sir Kay! Next chapter will be longer to make up for today's shortness.**

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><p>Chapter 2: Reconcile<p>

Lancelot sent me to Arthur cowed and apathetic inside, wishing for death. I insulted the servants, bullying them about in attempt to cover my own sorrow and weakness. I thought surely the King shall kill me, strike me down, run me through, and shame me.

But when our train came upon Camelot, the fair turrets watching over the beautiful citadel, the white stones protecting the town, the blue and purple flags blowing in the east wind I...I was humbled by its magnificence. I rode back in our train, back to the litter upheld by four servants. I rode alongside, slowly drew back the dark silk curtains, and gingerly lifted Felicia's head out. Her eyes were closed and sunken, bruised circles ringing them. Her face paler than it ever was in life, but her hair was still smooth, soft, and fine as gold thread. I kissed her forehead and rode with her onwards with my head down in shame, back to the very front of the train. We entered the first gate and as we processed in the whole town seemed to fill with silence. The peasants stopped gossiping, bartering, fetching, cooking, and just living to stand and watch us in silence. A fully armed knight with his dead damsel...The splotchy armor to match the clouds pregnant with rainstorm. Some men even took off their caps.

When we finally reached the Great Hall, Arthur was waiting for us, sitting on his throne while other knights flitted about. He was unarmed except for a sword with a gold, bejeweled pommel at his belt, instead wearing a majestic flowing purple cloak and a red surcoat and trousers. The gold crown glistened on his solemn head, which, though sporting fine brown hair, did not yet have a beard. His blue eyes which I later knew normally twinkled with delight, now seemed dimmed as I kneeled with Felicia still in my grasp. He rested his chin on one hand. Still facing the castle floor, I explained the matter to him. Then I fell silent.

"Sir Lancelot sent you?" he asked. It was the first time I had heard his voice. It was commanding and boomed across the hall, but at the same time I could sense some tenderness, understanding, compassion in it. A curious, kind voice bent to boldness.

"Yes, sire."

"I'm glad to hear he is alive."

"I am glad he tried to intervene too, sire."

The King leaned forward, taking his head from his chin and letting his arm rest back on the throne. Peeking from under my brow, I saw him widen his eyes at me and I shivered at the scrutiny.

"I am known for my generosity, Sir Bedivere. When I became king, I gave all my barons gifts for their loyalty. I do not recall giving your father any."

"No, my lord. Father did not come to your court seeking gifts." I remember wondering what this was about and why I hadn't died yet.

"But as generosity is a virtue so is justice. You have done something awful, sinful, and sorrowful. I can not excuse that."

"I hope you won't, my king."

Arthur leaned even closer to me, almost sliding off his throne. His eyes flicked to a corner of the hall and then back to me. The whole hall seemed to still and draw breath at once. "Merlin has said you will do a great many things, Sir Bedivere. A great many people will be saved because of you. So I grant your father and you this blessing though you may view it as a curse at the moment: your life. You must swear loyalty to me and the Round Table before going on your first quest."

I released a breath I had not known I was holding. My eyes started tearing up. All I could think was that I had killed my Felicia, behaved horribly to the servants, shamed my family, disappointed my brother, and all was terrible, terrible, terrible.

"But let all hear this," said Arthur, raising his voice and his head to address the whole hall. "Your first quest, Sir Bedivere, is to go unarmed to Rome with your wife's head and seek the Pope's forgiveness. Only then will you be regarded as a true knight of the Round Table and worthy to be of my service. That is your penance from your king: you will be forced to live to be a better man." He settled back into this throne a little bemused smile on his face. "You may go and rest now, Sir Bedivere," he added softly and kindly while offering his hand. I kissed it fiercely and spoiled the purple of the cloak with some of my tears.

The next forty-eight hours are somewhat a blur for me. All I could do was apologize to everybody and sleep and cry and clutch at Felicia. The first night, I stared at my chamber's ceiling in a hazy sleep until dawn came, and I then began making preparations for Rome. Then there was the effervescent re-swearing of loyalty followed immediately by official sentencing and being escorted from court to begin the penitential quest. Somehow Sir Kay had been inserted-or likely inserted himself-into my quest so that he was to escort me. He was probably just bored, you know, staying at court all the time and looking after ceremonies. It was honorable, but at the prospect of a year-long assignment to travel on the famous pilgrimage he was probably overexcited. I am grateful to him in any case: we became good friends over the journey.

As Arthur said, I had to go unarmed. I did not take armor and wore peasant clothes most of the time: a linen shirt, plain trousers, and a traveling cloak with long sleeves did nicely. Felicia had much finer furnishings with the four servants carrying her litter as before. She had always wanted to travel. Three mules with supplies completed our train and we were off to the holy city.

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><p><strong>Click the blue button. Click it good. =D<strong>


	3. On the Road to Rome

**Hello again! Pleeeeeeeease review. Even if to tell me how you hate it or how I should be envious of your potted plant collection. Also, warning: there's lots of references to random bits of Arthurian legend/literature in this chapter in addition to violence and...a bit of slash if you wear that sort of goggles.**

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><p>Chapter 3: On the Road to Rome<p>

Kay and I had many adventures on the way to and from Rome. At first I was mostly silent and grieving, but slowly I opened up to Kay's abrasive jokes and chatter. Mind you, everybody says Kay's tongue was the death of him, but the fellow had interesting, legitimate things to say if you listened long enough. And if he got his jealously and pride and insecurity out of the way, he could be almost eloquent. Lancelot saw it too, I dare say, but you know every knight feels insecure in himself around a great figure like Lancelot.

But which adventure would you like to hear? There were lots of giants. This was before those ridiculous Romans had come to Arthur demanding tribute, so Frollo was in charge of France still. He didn't really care about his people, I feel. At least judging by the amount of peasants willing to ask foreigners for aid. Almost every village it seemed had some sort of witch or enchantress or dwarf or evil knight or fay folk hassling it to no end. What? Oh that one. Yes, that's how I got my famous epithet from Kay.

We were approaching the true border of Rome, near Saxony. Everybody's hair was steadily darkening due to winter's approach despite the influx of Saxon blood in the vicinity. We hoped to cross the Alps before winter truly hit, to avoid the worst snow, and reach Rome well before Christmas. Only Kay was wearing armor, milky in the misty half-light of autumn. Felicia's silk litter was supposed to be his lady, and most assumed I was his dirty servant with little fighting strength due to my lack of weaponry.

We were riding single file in a narrow ravine, and at this point I was still mostly silent, thinking about my sin. Kay had successfully made me smile or chuckle once or twice and was very proud of this accomplishment. He was talking again to me, but this time with little success as I was stubbornly sullen. He had a careful line to walk with his words because if he annoyed me too much I would lash out, the rage creeping over me, digging its fangs in my mind. Then we would fight and I would lose and be lethargic and weepy for days afterwards. On the day of the ravine, I could feel the patter of the rage's feet closing in on my mind. Kay's noise was annoying, it was too cold out for this time of the season, I was missing Felicia, and some danger warning was nagging at the back of my brain.

Suddenly, bandits appeared at one side of the ravine yelling their Saxon heads off. Almost fifteen of them streamed down, waving about their stolen swords like they were slingshots to be thrown. "Felicia!" I yelled and jumped off my horse to run back to the litter. The four servants put down the litter and brought out their own weapons-knives and the like-to defend their dead mistress. Well, one of them stayed with the litter and the others went to protect the three mules our supplies were stored on. Practicality.

Anyway, the bandits were upon us with little room to spare on either side, and I had no arms as per my instruction. But I could punch and kick. I was ducking and weaving with the servant, trying to guard the litter. Kay was the focus of the bandits's attack and he was hacking and slashing, his warhorse rearing to crush feet and skulls alike. I felled one with a swift kick to the gut and punch to the eyes, a second with a sweep to the legs to unsettle his balance where he then hit his head on a rock. One bandit managed to open the litter's curtains, and he screamed. I can imagine his wonderment, his terror at finding not a blessed lady demurely sitting, but a pale corpse embalmed! "She's dead! The lady is dead!" he screeched.

"She's my wife!" I yelled back, kicking his ribs with a satisfying crack before smashing his jaw with my fist. He staggered away, dazed.

My world was going red again especially as it became increasingly clear how ineffective my blows were compared to those given by a sword. My servants were being cut, Kay was dragged off his horse, and men I knocked down over and over only rose again. We were being pushed against the ravine wall, with at least eight fighting to our six. I yelled in frustration. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Kay was wearing down, his armor more a hinderance when being attacked by agile peasant fighters despite their own lack of armor. I needed a _sword_.

"Kay!" I screamed. I did not know what else to do. Four men approached with arms, death glinting in their blue eyes. My servant and I were forced against the dropped litter, side by side. The man I had hurt in the ribs and jaw was still standing, looking particularly displeased and vengeful. "Kay! Help!" I shouted over the din of battle.

"I'm a bit busy!" he yelled back. Having defeated his other attackers, he was fighting a burly half-giant, most likely the leader of the group. "Get a sword or would you rather die?" Kay was never one for chivalric language, unless it was absolutely necessary like in a knighting ceremony. My muscles screamed in agreement to his suggestion, my blood boiled at the prospect. The quartet stepped forward eagerly. Their shadows were red to me.

"I charge thee in the name of High King Arthur, Overlord of all Britain, to stay back!" I said to them, puffing out my chest to try to assert authority as my father had done. They laughed. I stepped in front of the servant, who by this time was trembling with exhaustion and fear. I splayed my arm and hand over him. His name was Alfred, a kind friend who loved birds. "Leave us now, I charge thee!"

"Like we'd take orders from you," the rib-damaged one snarled, revealing missing and blackened teeth. He spit on my boot and raised his sword.

He down-swiped with his weapon, looking for an easy removal of my hand. Quick as a wink, I pulled my hand inside my voluminous cloak sleeve, making it look to all the world my hand had disappeared. You could feel the shock emanate as the loose length of cuff floated to the ground in front of Alfred. The bandits gaped. I saw with a quick glance Kay's eyes widen in surprise and fear that I had been disabled. I glared at the unsettled bandits, raising my seeming stump as if to marvel. The sleeve fell to my elbow, revealing the hand fisted, in tact and whole. I grinned at them, letting the bloodlust creep into my eyes, contort my cheeks, and drip from my canine teeth. The rage had me.

Then time seemed to speed up. Kay gave a great big guffaw, saying "You shall be defeated by the hand of my friend!" before dealing the half-giant a death blow. Alfred gulped. The bandits advanced and began to give their first strike. The other servants ran back to us, their attackers muted forever. One of them called, "Master!" before throwing me one of Kay's extra swords. I caught the pommel with a smack. That's all I remember.

When I came back to my senses, the four bandits' bowels were strewn across the ravine floor, burning my boots. My face was splattered with red liquid. I was shaking where I stood. I collapsed to sit on my rear, letting the red sword clatter on the ground. I put my head between my legs and breathed, trying to clear my nostrils of the sting of battle. I was vaguely aware of the servants gathering the horses.

I heard the clank, clank of an armored foot. Kay stood before me, just looking at me for what seemed like an eternity. My skin prickled with his evaluation. He took off his gauntlets to expose his naked hand and kneeled down in front of me. I couldn't look at him. "Bedivere?" he said. I shook. "That was the worst fight we've had, Bedivere. Sorry louts gave us a bit of a surprise. But perhaps we would have won sooner if you had a weapon sooner." He chuckled. "Though that giant was no perfect peach either."

He fell silent for a bit, still staring. "But it's over now, Bedivere. It's over. We won." He ruffled my hair like I was a child. "Over," he repeated. I raised my head a little in acknowledgement, and he kissed my brow before sitting beside me. He rubbed circles in my back, like a mother comforting a child. "You know, when Arthur was young, he was called the Wart. He was an annoying, colicky baby. Mother used to do this and he felt better..."

We sat for an hour like that, Sir Kay who had killed a (half) giant, sitting in the cold dirt of some godforsaken ravine with horses and silent servants and a dead woman around us. Telling me stories of the Wart who later became High King and had a wonderful Round Table with lots of good food and good knights and pretty ladies. When I was finally ready to continue our journey (or to find lodgings against upcoming cold nightfall at that point), he kissed my brow again before standing to help me up. "But Bedivere," he said. "You are to never handle a sword unless I say so first."

Of all the knights, I miss Sir Kay the most. He used to call me "his one-handed knight," after the Adventure of the Ravine and after we returned from the pilgrimage, we were like brothers. Arthur was delighted. We were among the first knights of the Round Table. During the Roman campaign, we killed a magnificent giant together. In the last battle, I was there when he was...

Kay was never an_ excellent_ fighter per se. Common battles, common disputes he was good at. But these epic, mythical quests against knights that name themselves after stars or a kidnapped queen rescue from madmen, he was rubbish at, though he would never tell you that. That Culhwch and Olwen quest, for example. It had been awhile since any big campaign, and Olwen's father gave _such_ an eccentric list of tasks. Most of them ridiculous. But Kay and I did a lot of the easier ones together, and he was very proud. Quantity over quality, eh? It was that or stay at court and that tended to get boring after a bit. Only so many times you can polish your sword before you want to use it.

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><p><strong>Lookie-loo a fight scene + Kay + Bedivere = coolness on a platter of chips. At least in my book. What do you think?<strong>


	4. Camelot

**OH MY, second to last chapter whaaaaaat. This has more Kay and Bedivere being besties. Also contains the vaguest of Shakespeare references if you can find it. Please review!**

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><p>Chapter 4: Camelot<p>

But I digress, you wanted my life. Well, after the pilgrimage and giving Felicia a proper burial, I was considered a true Knight of the Order of the Round Table. It was fascinating and exciting: the quests, the new rule of Right over Might, the chivalry and ideals, the courtesy, the long natural history talks with Arthur. Beautiful. I was finally allowed to be who I wanted: to not be the strongest or cruelest like my father.

If I wanted, I could study the falcons on bright, clear spring days, visit the smoky smelter's hut to see how to make the vivid stained glass, have mock duels with Kay until we both sank on the floor laughing, help Arthur draft laws in his dusty study, on Sundays sit with Guinevere's ladies in the homey towers to discuss tapestry and news for a few hours, or listen to the other knights' stories. I became friends with most everybody, especially the King and Kay. I knew about Guinevere and Lancelot, of course, but I dare not ruin something as great as Camelot for that. It saddened me, but I had sinned also, so who was I to throw stones?

Towards the end, I was Arthur's advisor of sorts. I was just..._there_ if he ever needed me. I could fight, command, punish, navigate, rally, advise, charge, retreat, sacrifice, spare, follow, and lead. I could also draw, polish, heal, sew, sing, dance, hunt, joust, blow glass, repair armor, mend clothes, play any sort of game though I was especially good at chess, raise a hawk from infancy onwards, interpret the stars' meanings, play the lute, cook (or at least tell good cooking from bad), name every animal as far as Scotland as well as their habits, and recite every almost every story.

I also have a large collection of relics, which I enjoy looking after with reverence. Oh, don't look at me like that, the minute I die they'll belong to this fine church. It _is_ a very beautiful church: I admire your stained glass. As I was saying though, I never had a knack for languages or illuminating. Five minutes after trying to illuminate a book, my head would ache. I could read and write of course, but illustration was beyond me. Conjugating words also defeated me, especially Latin with all its rubbish demonstrative pronouns and relative pronouns and i-stems. I don't know how the Romans did it. I became the jack-of-all-trades knight, gaining notoriety not for singular deeds, but a singular quantity of mediocre ability.

During the Grail Quest, I was almost immediately sent home. Kay and I struck out together and confessed at the nearest Chapel we could find. But we both knew we were not going to find it, and we were not young enough to fool ourselves into thinking we were. Gray hairs and fools are not good company. But it was fine riding weather, and we wished the other knights well.

On the third night of our journey, we camped under a weeping willow that leaned into a stream. The weather was warm enough that we were under the stars with our horses sleeping and grazing nearby: the kind of weather Felicia used to love. Something about the crackle of fire, the whispering of the wind through the leaves, the comfort of the summer grasses, the soothing resonance of the stream transported us. Kay and I awoke in a place full of light and warmth: heaven maybe? It was like the inside of the cloud if you ignored the fact that clouds are full of water droplets. Anyway, we stood up and looked at each other, amazed: we were young again! Kay's hair was its richest strawberry blond, his cheeks still carrying some of boyhood, his eyes full and sparkling so unlike in old age when they dimmed with nearsightedness. I felt my head: my hair was smooth and brown as a beaver's. My limbs were not aching with old battle wounds, the scar that I carried on my hand from one particularly nasty witch had disappeared. We gawked in amazement at each other, still dressed in our bed clothes, but then I heard...something I hope I will hear again soon: Felicia.

"Bedivere," she said.

I turned and found her standing before us, whole and complete, looking exactly as she did before my father ever slandered her name. I embraced her tenderly, crying and mumbling apologies, kissing her brow, her cheeks, her lips. I think Kay was blushing. After giving us a few minutes, Kay cleared his throat and said, "Well, that's lovely and all, but why are we here? Are we dead?"

Felicia smiled at him and winked at me. "No, my dear Kay." She let go of me to drop a quick curtsey before returning to my arms. "You are here to see."

"Ah," he said, still fidgeting with awkwardness. "See what?"

"You are here to see, dear caretaker of my husband, what shall happen with the Grail." She turned to me seriously. "God has seen you and him, and you have served others and Arthur well. Such faithfulness is to be rewarded." Then she dropped her eyes from mine. "However, because you have also hurt people and-"

I stopped her, not being able to bear to hear it come from her own mouth. I traced a straight scar on her pale neck with the pad of my thumb. In the most ungentlemanly way, I hid my face in her neck and hair, whispering, "I'm sorry."

I could sense her smile. "All is forgiven, Bedivere."

Kay cleared his throat again and tapped his foot. So little patience for romance. "But what of the Grail and Arthur?"

Felicia pulled away from me but still held my hand. Addressing us both, she said, "Follow me and see."

She then led us to a small pool and dipped a single finger in it. After muttering something incomprehensible, she sat by it and gestured for us to follow suit. Sitting like that, we watched the pool. We saw it all: Lancelot, Galahad, Bors, Percival, the boat, the nun, Gawaine, everybody. Even in the reflection of the pool, the Grail's light was too strong. It seemed to burn us, transform us back to our old age.

After it faded, Felicia kissed our eyelids closed. Kay and I woke up, still under the willow tree. We clung together like children that night, not saying a word, each locked and reeling from our vision.

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><p><strong>The next is the last! Please click the blue button to pass the while.<strong>


	5. Here at the End of All Things

**Last chapter! Lots of references to the TH White here...and a blatant Lord of the Rings reference as the chapter title.**

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><p>Chapter 5: Here at the End of All Things<p>

After that, Kay and I returned to Camelot and waited for the end.

We saw Mordred and Agravaine go up the stairs to the Queen's chamber. We saw knights fall against the raging Lancelot when he came to save the Queen from burning. We saw all the soldiers sit outside the Joyous Garde, bored. We saw Guinevere, decked in her best, be escorted back to Arthur, and the Archbishop hold the petition for peace like the slightest breath would scatter the parchment threads. We saw the marching columns of soldiers cross the channel to France. We saw Gawaine being struck down by Lancelot. Twice. We saw Arthur's eyes burn and jaw set as he stepped out of his tent with a letter telling of Mordred's treachery. We saw Gawaine go to his final battle, head injury and all. We saw Arthur's tears dribble onto Gawaine's cold face as the last of his truly great knights was lost forever. The last thing Kay saw was mine and Arthur's teary, battle-ravaged faces, and the last thing he felt was our arms clutching him to us. I saw Lancelot's page disappear into the confines of Arthur's tent. I saw Arthur and Mordred stiffly shake over the temporary true. I saw the glint of steel meant to kill a snake, but truly meant the death of us all.

But last was Arthur. It was always Arthur. I watched in the shadows as he fought with Mordred, knowing I would only hinder the fight. It was in the clearing near Camelot with a great lake between us and the castle. For almost an entire hour, the clang of the father and son's steel rang through the forest like a death knell, eerie and weird. I was quaking in my armor from the wear of battle and the gut knowing that this was the end. The end of all things.

...

Yes, sorry. I'll continue. Finally, Arthur held his Excalibur high above his head with Mordred the farthest he could be from the almighty blade: cowering on the ground. Little trembles of mercy wriggled out of the illegitimate's lips like glowworms of pestilence, but somehow the faint echos of those beings made the Great King tremble. Arthur closed his eyes and made to turn his head away, but then Mordred's vile mouth twisted in a smile, his hand already making for his sword.

But Arthur sensed the treachery just as he had sensed Morderd's every other. His time, however, he put a stop to it at once. Excalibur swooped down and decapitated the slimy head from its owner forever. I gasped at the realization that all was finished as Arthur staggered away, feeling all the wounds inflicted on his old man's body. He went from Mordred without a backward glance and fell down under an oak tree.

I went to my King. "Sire, how goes it with you?"

The King's eyes were closed, but he opened them blearily to see me, his blue iris looking misted. "Ah, my dear Bedivere. You're still alive. How are the others?"

My facade of calm cracked a little: my vision blurred with tears and my arms shook as I went to hold our King. "Everyone is dead, my lord, but you and I."

"Ah. Then soon it will be just you then." I could feel the blood leaving my face as I felt behind Arthur's head and came back with bloody fingers.

"No! Don't say that, Arthur. I'll heal you. I'll make you better. And Lancelot is coming to save you. He has reinforcements-"

"They'll be too late, Bedivere. But..." he regarded me carefully, evaluating me. I was not his favorite knight, mind you. That was always Lancelot or Gawaine. But I was loyal and dependable, and he appreciated the support. "There is one thing you can do, Bedivere. You were there for me at the beginning so you shall be with me at the end."

"Anything, my lord."

"Take Excalibur and throw it into the great lake." He lifted the magical, bloodstained blade-the blade that in a way had his and Uther's and Igraine's and Morgause's and Mordred's blood on it-about an inch from the muddy ground where he clasped it, but then it fell again with a thud.

I was shocked: if Arthur died, Excalibur would be a final remembrance of him, the final, unbroken remembrance. How could I throw it away? I, who had meticulously collected every saint's relic I could find? And Arthur was surely more than a saint...

Arthur seemed to sense my turmoil. "You must, Bedivere. On your friendship and love, you must. It is too dangerous in the wrong hands and..." his eyes rested on the famous inscription on the blade. "It is time to cast it away."

"I will not leave you."

"Then take me on your back." The tears were threatening to spill over. Had all that we, the Knights of the Round Table and our Great King, worked for turned to dust? Did any of it matter at all? I tore some of shirt to make a bandage and bound my king's head. I then lifted the heavy body onto my back like you would a child. It was at least a two miles to the lake, and I was not young. It would take awhile.

Excalibur was still buckled to the King's belt as we walked, and the night fog rose. Arthur was groggy and soon fell asleep: I knew no true death had come since his breath huffed softly in my ear. As I walked an idea came to me. It was a rather sinful idea but I was steeped in sorrow and thinking more of friends lost than knightly ideals. I wanted something to remember my king and Round Table by. Moving as slow as a sloth, I unsheathed Excalibur and hid it in a tree. I then continued walking but headed more towards Camelot, hoping that there we would obtain rest and revival. But then Arthur woke: "Where are we, Bedivere? Have you cast Excalibur into the lake?"

"Yes, sire," I quaked. Arthur sucked in a fast breath.

"What did you see when you cast it away?"

"Nothing, sire," I puzzled, my eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"Then you have not done as I asked. Sir Bedivere, as your king I charge thee to cast the sword into the lake," he said with the faintest echo of command. I went back to the tree and retrieved the sword, slightly dumbstruck. My limbs were feeling a bit numb under the weight of the again sleeping king, and I wasn't feeling properly anymore: this all seemed a lonely dream.

My sly mind again thought of a way out of my task and to keep my bit of Arthur. When we reached the lake, fog heavier than ever, I took my own sword and threw it into the lake. It was a sword, though not the one the king was referring to in his command-the letter instead of the spirit of the law. I hid the real sword under some leaves in a nearby tree. The king woke again: "Bedivere, what has happened?"

"I threw the sword into the lake, sire."

"What did you see?" he asked tiredly, knowing without even opening his eyes that I was lying.

"Nothing, sire. It made a big splash."

Arthur sighed. Then he used a voice I had never heard him use before, a weak, small voice. The Great King was begging. "Bedivere, _please_."

My legs knocked together, and I felt tears threaten but no emotion behind them. I retrieved the sword and felt Arthur smirk against my neck at my feeble hiding place. His breathing was labored now and his heart seemed to methodically pound out a last drum song. I took Excalibur in my hands, the pommel seeming to growl at me with the touch, knowing me as a false owner. I picked it up and threw it with all my might into the lake.

It sailed across like a boomerang almost disappearing in the fog bank until a white, bejeweled hand rose from the lake's depths and caught it with a hearty smack. The pale arm slowly sank back in my amazed eyes. I could feel Arthur grinning, his clouded eyes somehow seeing the happening. "Good work, Bedivere. Now-"

But before he could finish, a boat glided towards us from the fog. It was a simple wooden rowboat, but it needed no propulsion to reach us. A red lantern hung from one end and as it drew closer I could see a tiny Pendragon crest carved in the glass.

Arthur began to practically bounce on my back. He breath quickened, and his heart punched against my spine. "Oh! I had forgotten about Merlin and Avalon! They have come for me at last! I will come back, won't I? And all the rest too! I shall see Lancelot and Gwen and Gawaine and you too, Bedivere. The Round Table will rise!"

He was in such an agitation I was afraid he would expire. "Calm yourself, Arthur."

He shook his head vigorously, hitting mine in the process. "No, no, you don't understand. Everything will come again, Bedivere. When Britain once again needs us, we will all come again and have a jolly Second Table. Put me in the boat."

I did as he bade. He leaned up and kissed my forehead. "I shall see you again: don't be sad. I'm off to Avalon, the land of the fay. They will take care of me until the time to take everything up comes again. Tell Lancelot and Guinevere I love them and I forgive them and not to blame themselves too much. I want them to be most happy when I come back."

With that he released me, and I watched his eager face until the fog enveloped it entirely.

That is the end of my story, in essence. I met up with Lancelot's tardy troops and told them the whole thing. You should have seen his face: so...painted in loss with a tint of tragic. He's a hermit now and Guinevere became a nun after I gave her Arthur's message. But they will tell you their stories. Now I wait for my own to end. Then I shall see Felicia and Kay and Arthur and perhaps...Perhaps we will come back if in his last moments Arthur was speaking in drops of truth. But for now, all shall be silence...No, really. Stop writing.

_Here ends the tale of Sir Bedivere, "the one-handed knight" as Sir Kay named him, as he rose from the deep pit of sinful murder to the great glory of the Round Table. He was born into the dark age of cruelty and unkindness towards man, but died placed in the light of Right over Might and simple brotherhood. My hope is that those of us left will continue holding this candle of enlightened Christian way that Bedivere has presented to the world, that Arthur gave to this world._

_In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen._

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><p><strong>Tell me what you think please. My thanks to whoever has been reading this.<strong>


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